Where I Fell
by skyewardfitzsimmonsphilinda
Summary: An AU where Ward was under an Asgardian mind-control drug during his time with Garrett, and Barton, Romanov, and Hill decide he needs rehabilitation. Coulson's team isn't ready to take him back, becaue Fitz is still in critical condition, so Barton and Romanov take on the job of rescuing Grant Ward. Based on an idea submitted by the lovely SwingDancer
1. Falling

"Duress, my ass," Skye snapped, slamming the lab door shut behind her. "Fitz is still hurt, and Simmons is wandering around like a lost puppy without him. And he"—

"Skye." Coulson held up his hand to stop the onslaught of words. "Skye, it's okay. I understand, and it's hard for me to believe that Ward was completely powerless, but Hill and Barton were insistent."

"Is it true that Barton and Romanov both threatened to resign if Ward wasn't acquitted?" Skye asked, leaning against the doorframe, her arms folded. "Because that might be the most stupid-ass decision I've ever heard."

"They've both been where he is," Coulson reminded her. "Barton was under Loki's control during the battle of New York, and Romanov? Well, you've heard the stories of the red room, and I can tell you: anything you've heard? It was probably worse."

"I don't care," Skye lied, shaking her head and fighting the tears that were welling up in her eyes. "I don't want to see him."

"I understand that it would be hard for any of us to see him again," Coulson said. "Regardless of why he did what he did. That's why May and I have decided he won't be coming back to the bus. Barton and Romanov are in charge of him. His rehabilitation"—

"So was he under mind control?" Skye asked. "Was Garrett forcing him to do what he did?"

"Garrett manipulated him and abused him for years, but over the last six years, he's also been using some primitive Asgardian mind control," Coulson explained. "But I understand. It's still hard to accept that the man we thought we knew never existed."

"The man I l"—

Skye stopped, and turned away, but Coulson placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Skye," he said softly, and then she was crying on his shoulder, her whole body shaking.

"I don't want to see him again," she said shakily, standing back.

"That's okay," Coulson said gently. "May thought you wouldn't. He won't be back on the plane."

_At Barton's safe-house. _

"Why did you bring me here?" Ward wouldn't move an inch farther into the room. "Is this an interrogation? I already told you, Garrett never told me Hydra secrets. He only—he only gave me what I needed to know for… the missions." His voice trailed off.

Under the Asgardian mind-control drug, MA-4016 Garrett had made sure Ward didn't ask questions, didn't wonder why he was doing what he did. Of course, long before there had been drugs and mind control, there had just been Garrett, his charismatic presence dominating every aspect of Ward's life.

Ward's fingers traced his side down one of the innumerable scars Garrett had left there for not following orders exactly. He had been fourteen the first time Garrett broke something; sixteen when he had beaten Ward so badly he couldn't walk for three days.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had been told that it had happened on one of his trial ops, and not a single person had questioned Garrett.

"We're not here for answers, kid," Barton said gruffly, but his eyes were dark with sadness. "We're here to help you."

"_Help_ me?" Ward scoffed, crossing his arms. "A lot of people have told me they're here to help. In fact, the last one stuck me with some mental Asgardian drug and forced me to play the killer, Agent Barton, so you're going to have do a little more than that to convince me you're here to help."

Barton's face softened just slightly. "I know you don't have a reason to trust me, kid," he said. "But if you can't trust me, then at least trust the debt I owe you."

Ward cocked his head in confusion.

"New York. Loki. I was lost," Barton said softly, his eyes looking past Ward as if he could still see the hell he had lived through. "You kept me from killing a room full of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, and that wasn't the drug, kid, because if you had done what Garrett wanted, they would all be dead. You may not have been able to control every decision you made, but what I saw in that bunker three years ago was one of your only moments when you had true clarity of mind. And your instinct was save, kid. I haven't forgotten."

Ward looked away uncomfortably, trying to hide the fact that there were tears welling at the back of his eyes.

"Alright," he said finally. "What do you want me to do?"

"I don't want you to _do_ anything," Barton shrugged. "I want you to get better. We'll start with this. Follow me."

Ward moved forward tentatively, taking in his surroundings.

They were on the top floor of a building that had been abandoned for years, but inside, the building was in good condition. When they had stepped off the lift, they had entered the main room, a long, empty hall with an arsenal of bows and arrows at one end of the room and a set of targets at the other.

"What are we going to do?"

This time, Barton cracked a grin. "I'm gonna teach you how to shoot, kid."

"I know how to shoot, sir," Ward said, his voice strained with impatience.

"Oh, no you don't," Barton grinned wider, slinging his bow over his shoulder. "Not like this."

He handed Ward a bow, and even though Ward hadn't shot a bow a day in his life, there was something oddly familiar, even comforting, in the way the bow felt in his hands.

"You aim like"—Barton began, but Ward already had an arrow in the string and was pointing it towards the target.

He looked up at Barton, and the man was grinning with pride.

"You just might be a natural, kid."

And for the first time in years, Ward found himself grinning right back.


	2. Home

"Is this whole building yours?" Ward asked Barton as they finished that first archery lesson. "Or do you use just this floor?"

"Well, _I _use just this floor," Barton told him, pointing to the rack where he wanted Ward to hang the bow from. "I like being high up. The other eight floors are Tasha's when she's here, and she usually is when she's not on a mission. Oh, and if you go on the third floor without permission, she might break your neck. If you go on the _fifth_ floor without asking, she'll definitely throw you off the roof. Also, you probably shouldn't say anything about her cooking."

Ward stared at him, lost for words.

"It's Romanov," Barton said defensively when he saw Ward's look. "You don't mess with her, and you'll be okay. Your bunk will be up here. I have the one across the hall from you. It's just through those doors."

"Okay," Ward nodded. "So… what are we doing now?"

"I didn't want to tire you out," Barton said nonchalantly. "We can practice archery later if you have the energy."

"I'm not tired," Ward said quickly.

"Of course you are," Barton said. "You didn't sleep last night, did you? How long has it been since you slept the whole night?" His look was dark with concern, and a little sadness, maybe, or regret. When Ward didn't answer, he said, "I thought so. Look, kid… I'm sorry. We should have known something was wrong, and we let that bastard use you for so many years." Barton laid a hand on his arm, and Ward jerked back as if the touch burned him.

"I'd rather not talk about it," he said sharply. "Will you show me to my bunk?"

Barton nodded. "This way."

The room was spacious, and more importantly, it was his.

"I've never had one," he said suddenly.

"What, a room like this?" Barton asked casually.

"A room," Ward said in wonder. "A room of my own."

Barton looked at him sharply, but didn't comment.

"Like I said, I'm just across the hall if you need me, kid," he said quietly. "And we should get some food."

"I'm not hungry," Ward said quickly, even though that wasn't quite true. He hadn't eaten since the trial, which was nearly forty-eight hours ago. His appetite had left him the moment he'd heard his crimes—some of them that even he didn't remember because he had been so drugged on the Asgardian mind control at the time—listed before the court.

"You're white as a sheet," a voice interrupted them, and Ward realized Natasha had joined them, silent on her feet as always. "Of course you're hungry. Was he pretending he wasn't tired, too?" she asked Barton, who nodded.

"I brought Thai," she said. "Steve invited me to stay for dinner with Sam and Sharon and Rhodes, but I wanted to see you both tonight."

Barton took the take-out bag from her, grinning. "_Phat thai kung_?" he asked, sniffing the food. When she nodded, he added, "Do you remember that mission in Bangkok?"

Romanov started laughing, and the sound surprised Ward. It was higher than he would have thought, and louder; nothing he would have expected from the famous spy.

"Ever been to Bangkok, kid?" she asked him, and he shook his head.

"I've been to Thailand, though," he said. "Chaing Mai."

She nodded. "I led part of that op. Were you on the team that went to Prague afterwards?"

He assented, and Barton led the way through the doors into a small dining room.

"Tasha and I were… our own team, I guess you could say," Barton said, grinning mischievously at her. She hit him playfully, but he dodged out of her reach and dug his hand in the take-out bag. "She broke at least six S.H.I.E.L.D. protocols, as well as my left arm"—

"Shut up, Clint," she said, but she was laughing, and Ward stared back and forth between them.

"Come on, kid," Barton said. "She brought food for you too, you know. Sit down."

Ward did as he was told, taking a seat on the far side of the table from the two of them, who had commandeered half of each other's chairs, their legs brushing. Ward looked away, embarrassed, and dug into the food offered, forcing himself to eat for the first time in days.

Afterwards, Romanov stood. "Clint, I bought, so you're cleaning up. And no, you're not making the kid do any work. He needs sleep."

"I don't"—Ward started to protest, but she raised a single eyebrow, and the words died on his lips.

"She's right," Barton said. "You should get some sleep. We'll have another archery lesson at six tomorrow, and you'll need your rest."

"Or you could train with me instead," Romanov said, smiling slightly. "You know, something that calls for _real_ effort."

Barton splashed dishwater at her, and Romanov smacked him with a dish towel before turning to Ward, who was standing awkwardly at the door. "Go on, kid," she said, her voice surprisingly gentle. "You look exhausted."

Ward did as ordered, but as he curled up on his bed, in a room of his own, it felt like less like following orders… and more like coming home.


	3. Lessons

Ward woke the next morning to the smell of bacon sizzling in the frying pan. He stumbled blearily out of bed and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top. He emerged into the kitchen, his eyes barely cracked open and his hair sticking spikily up all over the place.

Barton was cooking, and Romanov was stirring what looked like orange juice.

"Can you _not_ put vodka in all the orange juice this time?" Barton was asking irritably.

"I didn't put that much in last time!" she protested. "I didn't think it would affect you like that."

Barton snorted, and then caught sight of Ward. "Morning, kid," he said, rolling his eyes in Romanov's direction. "Don't let her spike the orange juice. She thinks normal people should always have alcohol with their fucking breakfasts," he said, but he was grinning at her just slightly. "She has the highest alcohol tolerance of anyone I've ever met, except maybe Steve. She had a drink-off with Thor once"—

"With _Thor_?" Ward said incredulously, his eyes widening.

"She won," Barton told him.

"Of course I did," she said nonchalantly. "And stop it, Clint, I'm not going to put vodka in the jug this time. Just in mine."

Barton rolled his eyes again, and Ward grinned.

"Do you want me to do something?" he asked.

Barton nodded to a cabinet on his right. "You could set the table. Hand me the hot glove, Nat?"

She tossed it to him, and Barton turned back to Ward.

"There's salt and pepper one cabinet over," he told him. "You can put that on the table, too."

Ward did as he was told, and then Barton placed the pan of scrambled eggs and a plate of bacon on the table.

Romanov poured three glasses of juice, dumping vodka into hers. When she saw Ward watching her incredulously, she grinned. "You look like Barton when you do that," she teased, and Ward looked away quickly. "So, are you working with me in hand-to-hand or are you following the hawk today?"

Ward looked to Barton for orders, but Barton just raised his eyebrows.

"Up to you, kid," he said.

"I'm pretty proficient in hand-to-hand," Ward said, though it was a startling understatement. He'd had the best marks since Romanov, actually, in his time at the academy, and now that he was free of the mind control drug, his skills were even better.

"Well, no one's as good as Tasha, but that can't really be helped," Barton said carelessly. "So archery, then?"

Ward nodded, wolfing down his eggs and bacon.

Half an hour later, Barton led him to the long main hall where the bows were stored and the targets set up. He spent at least an hour talking about different types of bows and telling him the quickest ways to fit an arrow to a bowstring, and how it differed depending on the bow type.

Ward picked it up fast, and before they broke for lunch, he was getting the vast majority of his arrows into the center of the target.

"You're incredible, kid," Barton told him, holding up his hand to gesture Ward to stop shooting for a moment.

Ward turned to him, his eyes shining with pride. "Really? I mean, I can see why you prefer it," he said quickly, but he couldn't help the grin on his face. "Why didn't I learn this years ago?"

_Because years ago, you were working for a mass murderer. Pulling triggers, taking orders, destroying all the things worth saving. _The guilt hit him out of nowhere.

If Barton noticed his expression, he didn't say anything. He clapped Ward on the shoulder and Ward flinched.

He tried to cover up his discomfort immediately, though, because no one seemed to understand how difficult it was to accept any form of touch, after Garrett had ravaged his mind and Lorelei had ravaged his body.

"Nat has a meeting this afternoon with Director Coulson," Barton told him, and Ward looked away, not wanting to think about Coulson or the team he had had.

The team he had betrayed, even if he hadn't had the power to do any different.

"Not with Coulson," Romanov interrupted. She was in the doorway, casually leaning with one hip against the doorframe. "He was called out of town abruptly. I'm free this afternoon."

"So, Agent Romanov, since you have the day off, shall we show our rookie what a good time looks like?"

Ward opened his mouth to protest that he wasn't a rookie, certainly not _their_ rookie, but Romanov got there first.

"I'm going to Steve's," she said, and Barton's face fell visibly. "So are you," she added, and then she jerked her thumb at Ward. "You too, kid. Steve asked if you would join us, and no one refuses Captain Puppy-Dog-Eyes."

"He knows who I am?"

"You're not invisible, kid," Romanov laughed. "You were pegged for my replacement, you know. Fury had high hopes for you."

_Had. Past tense. _

_Was there any hope for him now? _

"Of course, that was before we realized that S.H.I.E.L.D. had been making some fucking colossal mistakes the whole time," Romanov said. "Leaving you with Garrett, for one. But our biggest mistake wasn't pegging you for my replacement someday; it was waiting as long as we did to realize how much potential you have."

"Had," Ward said before he thought about it, but both agents shook their heads. "No," Ward said before they could argue. "Don't. Believe me, I heard it all from Hill. The once-you're-okay-again speech. There is no 'okay again' for me. There never will be."

Natasha swore in Russian, forgetting Ward knew the language, and when she grumbled about the stubbornness of men and how goddamn similar he was to Barton and Bucky and every other fucking man in S.H.I.E.L.D., Ward retorted in the same language that her Russian was far ruder than her English.

She looked up at him, admiration on her face. "How many languages?" she asked in Polish.

"Enough," he responded in German. "Fluent in six," he added in Spanish. "And I know enough about another three or four to have a conversation," he finished in Arabic.

Natasha nodded, impressed, and Barton stared back and forth between them.

"I feel _slightly_ left out," Barton said, poking Natasha in the ribs, and she grabbed his hand, grinning. "So when do we go to Steve's?"

"An hour," she said. "So you both better shower. I'll be downstairs."

Ward retreated to his room, his mind racing. He was going to meet _Captain freaking America_.

Ward felt sick.

He didn't want to meet the man; not like this. Not coming out of years of hell with blood on his hands and a mind that was barely in the process of being restored.

If they took a car, which he assumed they would, he'd be in the back, meaning he could easily bolt at the first stop sign or stoplight. They would find him, he was sure of that, and maybe they would be pissed, maybe they wouldn't want him to stay with them anymore, maybe they would think he was ungrateful, but he couldn't go—couldn't let anyone else see him the way he was…

But when Ward emerged into the main room, his hands shaking ever so slightly, he stopped in shock.

A tall man in sweats was emerging from the kitchen, talking to Barton and Romanov. He stopped when he saw Ward. "You must be Grant," he said, holding out his hand to shake Ward's. "I'm Steve. Steve Rogers."


	4. On What Matters

"_If a man cannot understand the beauty of life, it is probably because life never understood the beauty in him." –Criss Jami_

Ward stared blankly at the tall man in front of him.

"You're—you're Captain America," he said, his jaw hanging open.

The man grinned, and Ward shut his mouth quickly, taking the hand offered him and shaking it.

"I'm Grant," he said. "Grant Ward."

"I've heard a lot about you," he said, still smiling. "Barton says you're a natural with a bow, and I don't think he knows how to give out higher praise than that. And Romanov told me you were the one pegged as her replacement as Fury's second someday. I've heard great things about you, Grant."

Ward's face fell. "Is that all you've heard, Captain?"

"It's all that matters," he said gently. "And call me Steve, or Rogers, at least, if you're not comfortable with first names. Nat tells me"—

"He also answers to America," Natasha cut him off as she entered the room, rubbing a towel in her wet hair. "And if you whistle the Star Spangled Banner, he comes running."

"And the only other music he listens to is the sound of eagles cawing," Barton interjected, entering from the kitchen.

Steve laughed and rolled his eyes. "Funny coming from the man they call the hawk," he retorted, and Ward found himself grinning.

"You ready to go?" Natasha turned to Barton, elbowing Steve in the ribs as she walked by. "I just have to dry my hair."

Barton nodded. "Should we wait for you in the car?"

"You ready to go, kid?" she asked Ward, and he nodded uncertainly.

"I'm glad you're coming," Rogers said genuinely. "Nat said it was going to be hard to convince you to come."

Ward took a small step backwards. _Because you're Captain America, you're the legend who sacrificed himself twice, and I'm the crazy man from Massachusetts who let some psychopath drug and manipulate him for ten years. _

Rogers had put him at ease so quickly Ward had nearly forgotten the myriad of reasons why he couldn't go with them. Couldn't be part of beautiful, normal events like dinners with friends who laughed and joked.

He wasn't normal.

Could never be normal.

Rogers clapped a hand on his shoulder, and it was everything Ward could do not to flinch at the touch. The man must have noticed, because he removed his hand quickly, though he said nothing about it. "Do you like steak and potatoes?" he asked easily. "Sharon and Sam are cooking, thank God."

_Sharon? Sam? There were more people at this dinner that was already messing with his anxiety? _

"Sharon was an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. before it fell," Steve explained. "We're…dating now. And Sam is my friend. He was a para-rescuer before, and he helped in the battle at the Triskellion."

"Are you sure it's okay that I'm coming?" Ward asked uncertainly.

"Of course!" Steve said, leading Ward through the double doors into the stairwell. "Sharon looks forward to meeting you. And I hear you spent some time in Afghanistan yourself? Sam will talk your ear off about it if you let him."

And so it happened that Grant Ward ended up at a steak-and-potatoes dinner party with a room full of legends. He had never felt smaller or more inadequate in his life.

Sam was the life of the party, and Sharon and Natasha chimed in with sarcastic banter that kept Barton and Rogers laughing too hard to sit up straight for most of the night.

Ward even found himself enjoying the dinner, at first.

Later when he thought about it, he couldn't put a finger on what had triggered his breakdown.

Maybe it was a word, a sight, a smell, but in an instant he could feel panic rising in his stomach. He could taste bile in his mouth, and his breath was staring to come faster, and he couldn't see suddenly, couldn't breathe—

He excused himself to use the bathroom, disguising his panic just long enough to close the door behind him.

And then he had pried the window open and he was running, running, running away from the warm light of Steve Roger's dining room and the laughter of friends and the memories that choked him and dragged him down, down… into a darkness so deep he knew no one would ever find him…

Ironically, it wasn't Romanov, or even Barton who found him later that night.

Ward had run until he couldn't breathe anymore, and then he had wandered, lost in the blackest of memories, up and down dark streets and alleys.

It was Steve who found him.

Ward rounded a corner into an alley that was lit only by a dim yellow streetlight, and found him standing there, waiting.

"Grant! Wait!" he said sharply, as Ward turned to run. "Hey. It's okay. I'm not here to take you anymore, I'm not here to do anything. I just want to talk."

Ward paused, and Steve jerked his head to the alley beside him.

"Come on," he said quietly. "Join me."

Ward stepped closer, skirting the edge of the alley like an animal wary of a predator. "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I shouldn't have run out on the dinner. I shouldn't have come in the first place. I panicked—I didn't think"—

Rogers held up his hand. "Grant. Grant. It's okay. Really."

Ward could feel his pulse racing, and he edged away slightly, ready to run.

"Take a deep breath," Steve said quietly. "Come on, Grant. Stay with me. It's okay. It's okay. It's going to be okay."

Ward took a long, shuddering breath.

"That's it," Steve said encouragingly. "You're going to be okay."

"What the _fuck_ is wrong with me?" Ward asked, embarrassment twisting his gut. "I don't know what happened"—

"You experienced a panic attack," Rogers said calmly. "At least, a panic attack mixed with whatever withdrawal effects you're having of the drug that Garrett put in you. It's perfectly normal for any agent or soldier who's gone through what you have to experience PTSD or panic attacks, and your situation is… unique. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

Ward leaned against the wall, sliding down until he was in a sitting position. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"It's okay," Steve repeated. "Do you remember what triggered it?"

"No," Ward said, blinking up at him. "You were all talking, and it just sort of… happened. Sorry."

Steve nodded slowly. "Sometimes triggers are hard to identify," he said quietly. "I'm the one who should be sorry. We shouldn't have forced you to go somewhere you weren't comfortable going."

Ward took in another deep breath.

"Do you want to talk about what memory it triggered?"

Ward looked away. "Garrett," he said. "It was the day Quinn shot Skye. The day I hated Garrett for the first time. I…I went to find him, to threaten him, to tell him to stay away from Skye." He stopped, staring away from Steve into the deepening shadows.

"And?" Steve encouraged softly, and Ward realized suddenly that he was sitting, too, across from him on the dirty ground of the alley.

"And the shock of what happened to Skye snapped me out of the Asgardian shit he had injected me with," Ward said. "And… I was angry and desperate and I came to him, because I still cared, I still felt like I should care, because he'd rescued me once and I owed him. He was like a father to me…

But he just laughed. Told me that I was the traitor, that it was my failure to get intel from Coulson that had caused him to order the hit. And then he said Skye would hate me if she knew. He said I could either get another injection of the drug or he would tell her… he would tell her and she would hate me for the rest of her life.

And I…. I chose the injection," Ward finished quietly, shame punctuating each word. "I _chose_ it."

He didn't look up at Steve, couldn't bear what he was going to see in the man's face.

"Grant," Steve said gently, and Ward met his eyes finally. "Grant, that's not a choice. A madman manipulated you and drugged you and used the injury of the woman you love to make you follow orders. And if I guessed right… those weren't the only means he used, were they?"

Ward blinked in surprise. "How did you know?"

"I had… have… a friend who had captors who were men like Garrett," Steve said slowly. "And at first I thought it was just psychological abuse, but there was something about the way he walked. The way he jumped when anyone touched him." He looked pointedly at Ward, who looked away. "It's okay, Grant. I understand and… I'm sorry."

Ward shrugged, staring at the ground. "How do you begin to… come back?" he asked finally. "Or is it even possible to come back after all the things I've done?" The words sounded sharp against the cold night air, and Ward winced.

It was the first time he had voiced the fear.

The first time he had voiced any fear, come to think of it.

But Steve wasn't walking away, wasn't calling him weak, wasn't ridiculing him.

He was just looking at him a little sadly.

"You can always come back, Grant," he said firmly. "And I don't have answers for you, and I don't know what your journey is going to look like. But I do know one thing. It starts like this." He stood, holding out his hand to help Ward up. "And we won't walk away, Grant. You know we won't."

Ward stared at him for a long moment, his pulse finally slowing.

And then he reached up, through the dark night air, and took the outstretched hand offering him help.


	5. First Steps

Perhaps healing meant rebuilding, and perhaps rebuilding meant letting go, but he was Grant Ward, the specialist who worked alone, and he had no idea how to even begin. He chose a simpler way, instead—rebuilding his body, and hoping his mind would begin to patch together along the way.

The day after he ran from Steve's dinner party, Ward rose earlier than Barton and grabbed a spare bow. He had practiced for almost two hours by the time Barton joined him, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and yawning.

"It's six in the morning, kid," he said blearily. "How long you been up?"

"Since four," Natasha said, entering the room. "Didn't you hear him go by our room?"

"No," Barton squinted at her. "He's almost as quiet as you."

"Nobody's as quiet as me," she said. "And your fingers are bleeding, Ward. Take it easy."

Ward looked down. It was true. The bow string was wire, and his fingers hadn't developed the protective callouses Barton's hands had, so his fingers were rubbed raw and bloody from the hours of practice. He hadn't noticed until she had pointed it out.

But take it easy?

He wasn't sure he knew how.

Barton looked at him thoughtfully. "Do you remember Hell Week at the academy?"

Ward nodded.

It had been an intense week of physical training, but it hadn't been nearly as taxing for him as it had been for most people—in fact, compared to Garrett's training, it had been nothing.

"Care to do a _real_ Hell Week training?" Barton said. "I mean, it's difficult, but Tasha and I have both done it. It's a more intense version of what the academy has field agents go through. And it'll give your fingers a break."

"Yea," Ward shrugged. "I'll do it."

Natasha laughed. "You say that like it's nothing."

"Hell Week was nothing."

"This isn't."

He smiled slightly. "I believe you," he said. "But I'll be fine."

"Let's have breakfast first, though, okay?" Barton said. "You'll need your strength to"—

"Clint just wants to have pancakes," Natasha interpreted, and Barton grinned guiltily.

"Well, that's good," another voice interrupted them, and Ward turned, looking for the voice. He found the speaker… hovering just outside the window. In a flying metal suit. "There are pancakes at my house, and Pepper sent me to invite you for breakfast. Him too."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Good god," she muttered before turning to Ward. "This is Tony Stark, if you hadn't figured that out by now."

"He knows who I am," Stark said confidently.

"I do," Ward said. "But from what I've heard of you, I'm just surprised to see you up this early."

Barton snorted with laughter, and even Natasha smiled.

Stark rolled his eyes at Barton. "Haven't gone to bed yet," he said. "So can you come?"

Barton looked at Natasha, who said almost pleadingly, "I haven't seen Pepper in ages. And there will be pancakes. You can start your training later."

"Ward?" Barton asked.

His last meal out with an Avenger had ended in a panic attack and a breakdown in a dark alley downtown, but Ward squared his shoulders in determination. "Yea," he said. "I'll come."

It was a fiasco. This time, however, Ward wasn't the one having a breakdown.

Stark may not have Romanov's history with the Red Room or Barton's history of Loki's brainwashing or even Ward's history of psychological abuse, but he was a walking train-wreck. Like Ward, he hadn't slept in two days, and also like Ward, he jumped at small noises and found himself lashing out at the ones who stayed with him patiently.

He had been involved in the Battle of New York, Ward knew, and from the sounds of it had made the sacrifice play and carried a bomb through the portal Loki had opened. How he had survived the fall, Ward had no idea, but he of all knew people understood that survival always came with scars.

Pepper was everything that Stark needed—patient and warm and welcoming—and Stark knew it. She was kind to Ward; kinder than most.

She reminded him of Skye, and he thought of her with a small, dull ache that he could not fully ignore.

"So, Grant, Steve tells me that you had dinner at his place the other day," she said as they settled into the chairs in a room on the top level of Stark Tower. "Did you meet Sharon?"

"And Sam," Ward nodded.

"They're lovely people," Pepper said.

"They smile too much," Stark said unexpectedly. "All of them. They're soldiers, and all they do is smile when they're with him. _Cap_. Of course they smile when they're with the living legend. I hear you didn't, though, kid"—

"Tony," Pepper said warningly, but Ward met Stark's challenging stare with one of them.

"You heard right," he said. "I ran."

"Are you going to run this morning?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Better food?" Ward said sarcastically, and Stark laughed, a note of bitterness hanging over his tone.

"I'll tell Steve you said that."

"Tony," Pepper said insistently.

"Pepper thinks I'm being rude," Stark said. "Am I?"

"Yes," Ward said. "But I don't care. I don't mind honesty."

"I like him," Stark said. "Pepper, I want one. Get me one."

"Come with us today," Ward continued, ignoring his words. "Train with us."

Stark's gaze met his, and Ward recognized the same hunted look he always saw in the mirror, despite the man's confident smile.

"He doesn't want to get his ass handed to him," Romanov said, grinning mischievously at Barton. "I don't know if he can keep up."

"It might be difficult for him," Clint said. "At his age"—

"I'm in," Stark said, scowling at the two spies, who grinned at each other.

"He needs to be back by three pm for a meeting with Hill and the rest of the new hires from S.H.I.E.L.D.," Pepper said. "Will you keep an eye on the time for him, Natasha?"

Natasha nodded.

"I don't need a babysitter," Stark complained, but Clint clapped him on the back.

"If you call her a 'babysitter' she might break a few of your fingers," he said nonchalantly. "So I would rethink your word choice if I were you."

"And yes, you do need a babysitter," Natasha added. "But that's Clint's job, not mine."

The four of them rose to go, and Pepper followed suit, shaking Ward's hand and smiling warmly. "It was nice to meet you, Grant," she said warmly. "Stop in again soon. And go easy on Tony," she said in a lower voice so the man couldn't hear. "But thank you. He needed that invitation, believe me. He really needed it."

When the four of them had reassembled back at the safe-house, Barton led them to the floor just beneath the floor where the archery equipment and sleeping quarters were. "Welcome to Hell Week," he said. "Are you sure you want to do this, Ward? Stark?"

Ward and Stark exchanged a look.

Stark's eyes were dark with memories, and Ward knew his eyes reflected the darkness of his own story. The look spoke worlds, and they seemed to reach a tacit agreement, as they both wordlessly reached for the sparring staffs Barton held in his hands.

It may not be much, but Grant Ward was choosing his path out of the dark for the first time in his life, and he felt the weight of that choice in his hands. He had no idea where healing found you, but perhaps, just perhaps, in the intense physical training he excelled at, he would find that first step.


	6. War Zone: Resurrectus

_They tell you that war is hard, that fighting is hard, that surviving in a war zone is hard. _

_But they never tell you how hard it is to come home; never tell you that violence writes itself across your soul and does not come out. _

_They never tell you that it is like being made and unmade over and over again until there is nothing left of you. _

_No one tells you that when you come back, your home becomes its own kind of battlefield…_

Three days after Ward had started training with Stark, Barton, and Romanov, he woke in the middle of the night. Until that night, he'd been sleeping a little better than usual, as being utterly exhausted after a long day of training had its value.

Tonight, however, something was different.

He woke abruptly, and though he couldn't put his finger on it, something had changed just slightly.

He was trained to listen for the differences, and with a sudden jolt he realized that someone else must be in the safe house with him.

Awake.

Walking around.

At 3 am.

Ward slipped out of bed, his bare feet making no noise as he slipped across his bedroom floor. His entire body ached from the training, which had involved long runs in the morning, swimming and conditioning, and then an intense hand-to-hand regimen followed by sparring and finishing with target practice. There had been three days of hell for his body, but it had exhiliarted him in a way he could never remember any of his previous training doing.

This morning, though, Ward wished he had his full strength to face whatever intruder was in the apartment.

Natasha was several floors lower, Ward new, and in all likelihood, Barton was sleeping in her room (things always seemed to end up that way, no matter how tired they were). Stark was back in his tower (he said they lived like primitive savages and he wanted JARVIS to make him breakfast), and Steve was back in the apartment he shared with Sharon.

Ward pushed the door open, drawing the gun he had left under his bed, and crept silently down the hall, avoiding the floor board that squeaked.

He had reached the main hall, his sharp eyes scouring ahead of him and his ears pricking at every slight sound he heard.

He heard a soft click behind him, a gun cocking, and he turned sharply, his gun raised.

It was Skye, her face a little paler than he remembered, and she was pointing a gun at him.

It took him a fraction of a second to realize that it was night-night gun, and his shoulders relaxed. "What are you doing here?" he hissed. "And how did you get in?"

She didn't lower the gun. "Trust me, I don't want to be here," she told him roughly. "And it's not that hard, Ward. You don't exactly have an amazing security system. I didn't even need my laptop on the Bus, I just hacked your security from my phone. You really should work on that."

He raised his eyebrows. "You couldn't just ask to be let in?"

"That's so much less fun," she said. "Besides, Clint and Tasha are both sleeping, and I didn't want to wake them."

He cocked his head slightly at the familiar names she used. "You know them?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Of course I do," she said. "They come to the Bus to talk to Coulson all the time. I thought you knew."

Ward shook his head.

"And, of course, I saw them at the trial," she said, her voice sharpening again. "Which also happened to be the last time I saw you."

"I assumed it was going to be the last time I ever saw _you_," Ward said, turning and walking towards the kitchen, gesturing to her to follow. When they reached the kitchen, he tossed his gun to the table, pulled up a chair, and sat down. "So, Skye, are you ever going to put down the night-night gun and tell me why you're here?"

"It's Fitz," Skye said finally, and Ward's sore body jerked to attention.

"What's wrong with Fitz?"

"You know he had memory loss after…" Skye's voice trailed off, and Ward couldn't look at her.

"Yea," he said. "I know."

"He's starting to remember," she said. "But he's in bad shape, Ward. Really bad shape."

"What do you mean?" he demanded fearfully. He was on his feet again, pacing in agitation before he consciously realized what he was doing.

"I mean he's very confused," she said. "He recognizes Simmons and Coulson and May and I, but he thinks the doctors are Hydra agents who have captured him and that they have you in a prison cell somewhere. No matter what we say, he doesn't understand. I don't know _why_, but we can't get through. Coulson thought that maybe you could. He's… he's having a breakdown."

He stared at her for a long moment. "I'll try," he said. "Where is Fitz now?"

"In the med wing of the base on the other side of the city," she answered. "Can you come now?"

Ward glanced at the clock. "Is Fitz awake right now?"

"I don't know," she said. "I came as soon as he was calm enough for me to leave—Simmons and Coulson are there now—and I think the sooner you get there, the better."

"Is May there?" Ward shoved his gun in his belt and pulled on a jacket, following her to the door.

Skye shook her head. Her gun was still clenched tightly in her fist, and he couldn't blame her. "She and Triplett are in D.C. meeting with Maria Hill and some government officials about sanctuary for some of the young S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists who were at the academy. Fitz didn't get this bad until tonight." Her voice shook slightly.

Ward drew a sharp breath, but couldn't find the words to comfort her. "Do you have a transport?"

Skye nodded. "I'm parked out front. I took Lola."

"You took _Lola_? Coulson must really be desperate."

"Um," Skye said guiltily. "He doesn't exactly know yet."

Ward stared at her in disbelief. "You didn't."

For a shadow of a second, she almost smiled. "I told him I was taking a car. I just didn't mention _which_ car."

Ward shook his head, a hint of a grin pulling at the corner of his lips. "Okay," he said. "Well, I'm ready to go. Are you—are you sure… if I come back…"

"It's for Fitz," she said, her eyes shifting away from him. "It's not about choice. We need you. Just for tonight, of course."

"Of course," he said, pulling open the door to the hallway that led to the lift. "Come on."

She followed him into the lift, and as they exited at the bottom, she stopped. "Grant?" her voice, so rough just a few minutes earlier, shook just slightly. "I—I didn't believe at first. About the mind control. But I saw… I saw the footage of Havana and London and… and I'm… I'm trying." The last words were barely more than a whisper, but Ward's face softened.

"I know," he said softly, pulling open the door for her.

They were silent as they emerged into the darkness of the pre-dawn on the chilly Sunday morning.

And despite the circumstances, despite every dark day that hung between them like weights in the night air, despite the seriousness of Fitz's circumstances, Ward gathered Skye's words to himself and almost felt as if the darkness of the precious Friday was beginning to slip away in the slow light that was creeping into his heart on this cold Sunday morning.

_They tell you that fighting the war is hard, but they don't tell you it's almost impossible to come home afterwards. _

_And you don't realize until it happens—until you hear those words or feel that hand in yours—that coming home can be its own kind of resurrection. _


	7. Stay

Fitz was worse than Ward would have guessed. When Ward arrived, it was just pushing 4 am and a cold pre-dawn light hung over the med wing. May greeted them at the door, her gun in her hand (and it wasn't an icer).

"This way," she said coldly, and Ward knew it would take more than a court case and the words of a few scientists about mind control to convince Melinda May that what harm he had caused was unintentional.

Ward could hear Fitz before he could see him.

Fitz was screaming, and Ward quickened his pace into a run, though everything in him wanted to turn and run in the opposite direction; to block out the awful, awful noise—

He kicked the door open and burst into the room, May and Skye at his heels.

Fitz was lying on a hospital bed, restraints on his arms to keep him from hitting anyone, and Coulson, Triplett, and Simmons were all bent over him, trying desperately to calm him down.

It was only as he neared Fitz's bed that Ward realized Fitz wasn't just making noise—he was screaming Ward's name. "They have him," he shouted hoarsely. "We have to go get Ward. You have to let me out. _Ward_!"

Triplett stood aside so Ward could move to Fitz's side.

"Fitz," Ward said urgently. "Fitz, it's okay. I'm here, I'm okay, nothing's wrong with me."

Fitz's eyes clouded with confusion, but his screams stopped. "Ward?"

"Yea. I'm here, Fitz."

"Did you escape?" Fitz asked. "Did you escape from Garrett?"

Ward looked to Coulson for direction, and Coulson shook his head helplessly.

"Garrett wasn't holding me captive," Ward said. "I was staying with Agent Romanov and Agent Barton. You heard stories about them at the academy, didn't you? You remember them. They're good agents. They were training me, Fitz. I'm okay."

Fitz let out a long breath. "I don't remember what happened," he said in a small voice. "Why aren't you with the team?"

Ward opened his mouth and closed it again. "It's a long story," he said finally, unable to look at any of his former teammates. "I guess you could say I was transferred."

"I thought Garrett had captured you," Fitz said, trying to sit up and then looking down at the restraints on his arms. Simmons leaned down and unfastened them, her hand brushing Fitz's arm gently, and he continued. "Did I dream that? I thought Garrett took you captive. I thought he was torturing you. Why did I think that? Am I going crazy? Why am I here?" His voice rose slightly, panic inching into his tone, and Ward placed a calming hand on his shoulder.

"You're not going crazy," Ward promised. "You were right about Garrett. He took me captive a long time ago, but he's gone now, and I'll be okay. You were… you were hurt. And now you need to get better."

Shame twisted his gut, and he looked away from Fitz. The scientist wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him. He remembered everything he had done under the control of the drug, and it almost made everything worse; to remember the red haze of the drug and the voice in his head that justified every trigger he pulled even when it felt like his mind must be shattering into a thousand pieces.

Perhaps it was why Garrett had known better than to ask him to pull a trigger when it came to FitzSimmons. Pushing a button to drop them into the ocean had been hard enough, and for a brief moment Ward remembered that he had fought the effects of the drug; had remembered little brothers and wells and promises and wanted so badly to turn to Garrett and put a bullet in him.

As it turned out, the drug had been stronger.

Garrett had been stronger.

And Ward had been weak and lost and he had pushed that button, and now Fitz was broken, too broken to put back together again.

"What did Garrett do to you?" Fitz asked suddenly, and Ward realized that everyone was staring at him.

"He used me to survive," Ward said briefly. "But I survived, not him, and that's what matters."

"Did you feel like you were coming apart?" Fitz asked, his voice small and fragile as he lay in the hospital bed. "Did it feel like falling?"

Ward met Fitz's eyes for the first time, and saw a desperation there that he recognized; a longing for someone to understand what he felt.

"Yes," he said quietly. "That's exactly why it felt like."

"Are you going to stay until I'm better?" Fitz asked. "They said I might get my memories back sometime, but they have to do some surgeries and until you came, I thought they were Hydra and they were doing experiments and that they were hiding you"—

"They're not," Ward said firmly. "I'm fine, and these doctors are here to help you, and Simmons will be working with them, too."

"So will you stay?"

Ward opened his mouth to say no, but Coulson nodded at him from across the room, and May jabbed him in the back with a sharp elbow.

"Yes," Ward said. "I'll stay."

Fitz fell asleep soon after, and Ward and the others withdrew, leaving Simmons alone in the room with him, her small hand clutching his.

The silence that fell on the rest of them was one of the heaviest Ward had ever felt.

"I should let Natasha and Clint know where I am," he said finally.

"I already did," Coulson said briefly. "They're on their way."

"They are?" Ward looked up in surprise.

"Barton knows Fitz from the Academy. He taught archery there for a few months, and met Fitz when Natasha accidentally broke the science division at a different base and they had to move some S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists there."

Ward's eyebrows shot up, but he didn't ask any more about how one person was capable of breaking the entire science division at a S.H.I.E.L.D. base (and he had seen enough of Natasha to know she was fully capable of much more).

"You need breakfast," Skye said abruptly. "You look like you haven't eaten in about three days."

"I'm fine," Ward said shortly.

"I wasn't asking," she said, turning on her heel and motioning for him to follow her.

(She was right, of course; he had forgotten to eat after their last, most intense training sessions on the previous day).

"You're pale as fuck," she added as they reached the door. "Are you going to be okay?"

_Okay _was a strange word, and one Ward didn't think could ever be used to describe him. Nothing was okay in his life, and, for that matter, it didn't seem like much was okay in Skye's either.

"I'll be fine," he said quietly.

"You know, for being an undercover agent for over a year, you really suck at lying," she said as they reached a small cafeteria on the main floor. "Of course you're not okay. But you better grab enough food this time."

They ate in silence for the most part, but at least with her the silence was less strained than it had been upstairs.

"You said you saw footage of… Havana," Ward said abruptly as they finished their meal.

"And London," Skye said, her eyes flashing suddenly. "I saw what a monster John Garrett was. I saw him drug you. I saw him beat you until you couldn't stand up. And I saw you let him."

Ward stared at her, openmouthed, amazed at her bluntness, and she blushed.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I shouldn't have said that. I was so angry at you and then I realized that I was angry at the wrong person the whole time and we… we tossed you to the wolves, Ward, and I still don't know what to think about you, but I know you didn't deserve that."

"You couldn't have known," he said.

"We should have tried," she said. "_Somebody_ should have tried to save you."

"It wasn't your fault," he said firmly. "And it's taken me a really fucking long time to get there, but maybe I finally believe that it wasn't mine, either."

Skye swallowed hard as they stood to go back upstairs. "You came out of it for a while after I was shot, didn't you?" she asked softly. "You were able to fight a mind control drug that no human had ever successfully fought, even for a few seconds."

"I think it's when Garrett realized that he had to be careful what he asked me to do," Ward said. "It's why… it's why he didn't ask me to shoot FitzSimmons," he said, his voice so quiet it was barely more than a whisper.

"Did you fight it then, too?"

"I tried," he said, shame hanging heavy over the two simple words.

"That's more than anyone else could have done," Skye said. "Simmons told me. Apparently Garrett and others before him tried the drug on countless people, and no one ever resisted, not even when it came to committing murder. But you… you fought it."

"It doesn't matter if I fought it," Ward said, looking away from her. "I didn't beat it, and we're still here and everything, _everything_ is broken."

A second later, her hand grazed his, her fingertips just barely touching his skin, and he caught his breath.

"Not everything," she whispered. "Not everything is broken."


	8. Atonement

When Ward rejoined Fitz in the hospital room that evening, he saw Clint and Natasha exiting, arguing loudly as always.

"You can't just steal something like that just because Fitz wanted it"—Clint protested.

"I was going to _return_ it," Natasha shot back defensively. "It's not stealing if you give it back before anyone notices."

"It was all over the news!" Clint said. "You saw the TV"—

"Yea, before you 'accidentally' tripped and ripped the cord so they wouldn't see," she said. "Fine. It isn't stealing if you give it back, period."

"I'm not sure that's how it works," Ward interjected. "What did you steal?"

"Borrowed," Natasha corrected.

"It was a monkey," Clint answered for her, annoyance lacing his words. "She stole a fucking monkey from the San Diego zoo, just because Fitz said he wanted one."

Grant snorted with laughter. "Does he have it with him now?"

"And he loves it," Natasha said defensively. "Clint's just a killjoy."

"You need to return it, Tasha," Clint said in exasperation.

Skye opened the door and poked her head out. "Why are you all standing out here?"

"Natasha stole the monkey from the San Diego zoo," Ward revealed, and Natasha smacked him in the arm while Skye burst out laughing.

"I should have known," she said. "Well, we can return it later, can't we?"

Natasha nodded. "Exactly. Clint overreacted."

"What are we going to feed it if it gets hungry?" Clint said.

"Vodka?"

"Contrary to what you seem to think, vodka is not in fact food," Skye informed her.

"Yea," Clint affirmed. "And what if it shits all over?"

"Then you, my love, will clean it up," Natasha said dismissively, moving past Skye back into the hospital room.

Ward looked at Clint and shrugged, following at Natasha's heels, and Clint rolled his eyes and followed.

Fitz, though still pale, looked nearly cheerful. There was a small monkey—had Natasha brought a baby monkey?—perched on the bed beside him, and Jemma was bending over it, holding out a handful of what looked like beans as she rambled about the benefits of legumes in monkey diets.

"Look, Ward, Natasha brought me a monkey for the evening," he said excitedly. "Do you want to try feeding him?"

Ward most certainly did _not_ want to try feeding the creature, but it was Fitz asking, so he crouched next to Jemma, who scooted over to make room for him. "Here," she dumped the beans into his hand. "Hold out your hand. Steady. Look, he likes them."

"He's holding them in his adorable little paws," Fitz narrated proudly. "Look at that, Jemma, wouldn't he be perfect for a lab assistant? I mean, think how much he could help with our experiments. We always said we could use an extra pair of hands"—

"No," Coulson spoke for the first time, and when Fitz's face fell, he added. "He's not ours to keep anyway."

"I'd been meaning to ask," Triplett spoke up. "Where _did_ you get the monkey, Agent Romanov?"

Clint and Skye looked at each other, but Natasha, her expression unconcerned, opened her mouth to answer.

"No," Coulson said again. "No. I don't want to know."

She grinned. "I didn't kill anyone to get him," she said in what was supposed to be a reassuring voice. "And I'm bringing him back tonight."

Clint rolled his eyes.

Ward handed the remaining beans to Fitz to feed the monkey with, and he stood up.

May entered as he did so, her dark eyes sharpening at the sight of Ward. She greeted Natasha with a brief nod, and moved to Coulson's side.

"Phil," she said, her tone urgent. "There's someone outside you need to see. Now."

Coulson followed her outside, and Clint and Natasha exchanged a concerned look. Natasha's hand closed over the gun on her thigh, and she nodded to Triplett, who moved closer to the door, his hand inching towards the icer in his belt. Clint sauntered casually by Ward to join Simmons at Fitz's bedside, dropping a knife into Ward's hand as he did so.

Simmons and Fitz didn't seem to notice, but Skye's head jerked up in alert.

"What is it?" she asked softly.

"Someone's here," he answered quietly, every sense focused on the door.

When it opened, the four of them—Triplett, Ward, Romanov, and Barton—tensed just slightly. It was just Coulson, and his face looked tired and lined. "Ward," he said quietly. "Someone's here to see you."

Ward looked at Barton and Romanov, who shrugged in unison.

As Ward reached the door, Coulson leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Go quietly and it'll be easier for you. _Please_."

He had no time to wonder what Coulson meant, because the moment he stepped through the door, he was facing three drawn guns. "Grant Ward, you are under arrest by order of S.H.I.E.L.D. and in cooperation with US intelligence organizations, for war crimes," one soldier spoke, his voice cold and calm.

Behind the three soldiers, Melinda May stood, eyes averted as one soldier handcuffed him.

"Did you know?" he asked in Chinese, a language he knew that only he and May shared. "When Coulson ordered to have me brought here, did you know? Did you want me arrested where Romanov and Barton couldn't see?"

She shook her head. "They will fight for you," she responded in the same language. "And so will we. Coulson will fight Fury until his last breath on this. You know that."

"Coulson gave me up," Ward said sharply.

"Because he had to," she responded calmly.

"For Fitz," Ward said. "And you can't tell him."

"No," she said. "We can't."

"Why am I being arrested again?" he asked. "Or doesn't Fury tell you anything?"

"The US isn't satisfied with the decision," she said. "You'll face a S.H.I.E.L.D. review board with whatever new evidence they've found."

Ward's expression hardened. "Don't tell Barton and Romanov until I'm back in prison," he said bitterly, this time speaking in English. "Better yet, don't tell them until you're far enough that they can't hunt you. They don't strike me as people who take kindly to betrayal."

Something flashed across May's face. "That wasn't betrayal," she hissed. "There is nothing we can do. You answer for your crimes"—

"I answer for _Garrett's_ crimes," Ward spat. "Because Garrett is dead and S.H.I.E.L.D. needs a scapegoat."

A muscle in her cheek jerked, and she turned away. "Go," she told the soldiers. "Hurry."

As they led him down the hall away from the first chance at happiness he had ever had, he heard Melinda May call after him in Chinese.

"We'll come for you," she promised, as if her words meant anything.

Grant Ward did not look back.


	9. Where I Fell

_My mind was a white blank page,_

_and he wrote his own story on it, in ink as wet as blood, _

_gouging into the page until my mind was no longer my mind. _

_And then he let me fall. _

_I fell here and shattered; _

_shattered until they lifted me with their own battered hands,_

_carried my tired bones to safety when I could no longer stand,_

_fought for me when my strength ran out…_

_this, this is the only kind of light I can see: _

_that after everything, they saw me and still came to find me, right _

_where I fell. _

He found the words scratched into the cell walls. Whoever had been in here prior had lived long enough to gouge his wound into the cell wall, but not long enough to know that hope in this prison was futile.

The prison cell itself was bad; the interrogation cell was worse.

Ward knew how to deal with torture; knew how to withstand it, but that didn't mean he could stop himself from feeling it.

He had known Garrett, of course, but he had not known Hydra, and he had no information to give. This, of course, did nothing to satisfy a group of interrogators who were convinced of his guilt.

Ward spent two nights in the prison, and he spent most of that time in interrogation.

He didn't make a sound when they came for him—didn't struggle, didn't scream, didn't even react—when they dragged him into interrogation on that first dark Friday night, or all of that impossibly long Saturday.

Sunday came, as it always did no matter who dark Friday was, and they dragged him from his cell to a courtroom, which had been called into a special session to deal with his crimes.

He hadn't eaten in three days—since he'd eaten breakfast with Skye, actually—and he was broken, his body sagging under the weight of injury and betrayal and questions he would never be able to answer.

When they entered the courtroom, the first people he saw was Natasha and Clint, who were standing as close to the front as they could, surrounded by at least half a dozen nervous security guards who had obviously been assigned to keep them behind the barrier.

Steve stood next to but outside the huddle, his face tense with worry, but he didn't speak.

"Grant!" Natasha called out sharply, and the guards moved as one to draw their weapons. She looked at them in disgust. "Calm down, _кусок дерьма_, if I wanted to get to the other side, you'd already be dead." She looked up at Grant again. "Grant, we're getting you out of here. We looked up the law and they can't do this retrial"—

"You're not allowed to communicate with the prisoner," one guard said feebly, and Natasha shot him a look. Clint stood beside her silently, but his face was utterly pale, and Ward guessed that he was remembering his own S.H.I.E.L.D. review board after the battle of New York.

Nick Fury himself had shown up for the trial today, and he was seated calmly in the row behind Natasha, beside Maria Hill and Pepper, who looked sick to her stomach when she saw Grant.

It was only then that he realized that his interrogation had left visible marks—bruises, certainly, littering his face, the slight limp when he walked, the scorch marks from the low-voltage electric current they had sent coursing through his body. Waterboarding, of course, had left no visible mark.

"Grant Ward," the presiding judge called him forward then, and he walked forward numbly toward the witness chair.

The courtroom door slammed open then, and Skye stood in the doorway beside May, her eyes blazing. Simmons and Trip followed, supporting a pale, sick-looking Fitz between them. Coulson followed at their heels, his face paling when he saw Ward.

Ward could hardly focus on the questions the judge was asking, and he was only vaguely aware that his testimony was going badly—he stammered and stumbled and talked himself into each trap the cross-examination set for him.

It didn't matter, he tried to remind himself. None of it mattered. They had already made up their minds to toss him straight into hell.

He hadn't had a chance to even speak about the drug Garrett had used when the cross-examination said he had no further questions.

"I understand you have witnesses of your own, Mr. Ward?" the judge asked, and Ward stared at him blankly.

The courtroom door opened again, and the judge scowled in obvious annoyance.

Tony Stark stood there, backed by a group of men and women sharply dressed in business suits. "Hello, dear," he said to the judge, smiling ingratiatingly. "I believe you began this trial—against protocol and against the law, I might add—before the defendant's team of lawyers arrived. Care to explain why?"

"I think you are mistaken, Mr. Stark"—

"I'm never mistaken," Stark said, and Ward could see that Steve was rolling his eyes in annoyed disbelief. "I've brought six of my team of lawyers, and my lead attorney, Mr. Abel here, would like to call his first witness."

And what happened after that took Ward's breath away.

He could only watch as the attorney called witness after witness—Maria Hill first, testifying to the fact that Ward had only brief spaces in which he had control over his own actions.

"New York," she said. "That was the first time. Loki ordered Agent Barton to kill a room full of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, and Garrett ordered Ward to assist him. Ward was able to act of his own volition and saved twenty-eight young S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. He re-directed Barton, who was under Loki's spell, and convinced Garrett that the job had been taken care of. At the time, I was unaware of Garrett's true loyalty, and when I saw Garrett with him in the med wing after the battle, I assumed he was just there to see Ward. I saw Garrett help the nurse, and give Ward the injection himself, and after that Ward was visibly different. We assumed it was shock or PTSD, but we know now that the drug inhibited his decision-making abilities, so he was once again under Agent Garrett's complete control."

"We would like to call Jemma Simmons to the witness stand."

Jemma stood, attempting a shaky, nervous smile. "Um, hello," she said awkwardly. "I'm the scientist who reviewed the bloodwork from Grant's time with Garrett. We have blood samples from over the years for different medical reviews like we do with all agents, and the mind control drug has been detected in every blood sample taken over the past six years."

As she continued, her small voice grew stronger and the prosecutor, whose questions had, early on, been meant to ridicule her knowledge, began to realize he had made a mistake to mess with Jemma Simmons. When she had finished, even the skeptical judge was nodding his head in understanding.

"Thank you for your testimony, Dr. Simmons," the judge nodded. "Who would you like to call next?"

Natasha testified next. "Barton was compromised just before the battle of New York, and when I went looking for him, he told me about a mission that was failed because 'the kid hadn't been drugged up enough,' but he didn't know anything beyond that, because Loki only gave him orders, and under Loki's mind-control, it was impossible to question those orders."

Barton testified next, his voice shaking as he described New York and Loki and what it was like to feel like your mind was no longer your own. "I was unmade," he said softly, and when he paused Ward realized just how breathlessly silent the courtroom was, even the judge and the prosecution. "And this kid was unmade over and over again, year after year, and he was still the first person to ever successfully fight off the effect of the drug at least three times."

"And those three times were?"

"New York," he said. "What I just told you about. And twice more, when his fellow agent Skye was shot, and when he was ordered to cross off the two scientists, Fitz and Simmons."

Ward swallowed hard.

"Do you have anything else to add to your testimony, Agent Barton?"

"Yes," Barton said, and suddenly his voice was strong and hard and unforgiving. "If you continue to pursue punitive measures against Grant Ward, Natasha Romanov and I will not only leave S.H.I.E.L.D. and any intelligence work you want us to complete, we will personally make sure your organization falls."

The prosecutor stared at him in disbelief. "Are you threatening an international intelligence agency _and_ the United States government?"

"No," Barton said. "I'm threatening anyone who perpetrates anymore injustice on this kid. And if that includes you, then yes. I'm threatening you." He reached into his pocket, and the guards reached for their guns again, but he only pulled out his badge and tossed it on the judge's desk. "Give the kid the justice he deserves."

He stood and rejoined Natasha, who had a tiny, wolfish smile on her lips as she looked at the judge, who was visibly shaken. Stark grinned smugly at the judge from the back of the courtroom, and Ward could only shake his head in disbelief.

He didn't think there could be more, after all this, but it was Coulson who stood next, demanding that Ward be released, swinging the full weight of his authority as the new director of S.H.I.E.L.D.

After Coulson's testimony, Ward sagged, exhausted, against his chair, unsure if he should even be allowed to feel hope.

They had fought for him, just as May had promised. They had done what they could.

But he had scorch marks on his skin and a weekend full of interrogation that said the US government had already made up its mind about him.

It was over.

Really, it had always been.

But then Skye stood.

Unannounced.

Uncalled.

"I have evidence," she said, and there was murder in her voice. "I have evidence of a serious miscarriage of justice that I will release to the public via the Rising Tide, and believe me, it will rock your justice system to the core."

The prosecutor narrowed his eyes. "Evidence of what?"

"Illegal re-trial of an already-acquitted crime," she said. "Torture and illegal interrogation methods, all sanctioned by highly-ranking public officials. I have evidence. I have _footage_. And in fifteen minutes, it's going public unless I enter a code to stop it."

"And where did you get this evidence?"

"Your security system is weak," she said, her lip twisting into a leer. "I have the footage of your interrogation and torture of Grant Ward, and I will use it to _bring you to your knees_." There was no mercy in her dark eyes, and her fists were clenched. She was standing before the witness chair, refusing to sit down, her eyes daring the judge. "Barton and Romanov may be able to cause you serious damage because they're warriors. And I'm no warrior, but you messed with one of our own, and I can destroy everything you have built."

"With what?" the prosecutor still had the idiocy to look confident.

"It's not just the footage of what you did to him," she said, and her face twisted painfully as she glanced over at Ward. "I have footage of the mayor of the city ordering the interrogation. I have footage of _this_ judge authorizing the use of waterboarding. I have footage of the head of National Security authorizing the use of 'any means necessary' to gain answers about Hydra. I have footage of those guards"—she pointed to the group still standing close to Natasha—"breaking protocol and beating Ward for no infraction of the rules. And I have footage of _you_, sir, asking the interrogators to make sure he didn't sleep in the two nights leading up to the trial, to make sure he wasn't mentally prepared to face a trial," she finished triumphantly.

The prosecutor paled dramatically, and the judge sat up straight, fear finally entering his eyes.

"What are you asking of us, Agent Skye?" the judge asked, and Ward nearly smiled at the tremor in the older man's voice. "Are you asking us to dismiss this case and allow your S.H.I.E.L.D. to take charge of this man?"

"Oh, but it's not my S.H.I.E.L.D., is it, your honor?" she said. "I'm just an old member of the Rising Tide who knows that none of you give a shit about the justice you're supposed to uphold. I don't trust you to make any fair ruling, and so I'm going to play by your rules, your honor. I can be as unethical as any of you, and I'm not _asking _for anything. I'm demanding that you release Ward, with the promise that you will never come near him again, and I'm asking that you resign from your positions."

"Or?"

"Or I'll release the footage," she said. "And then I'll dig up every piece of dirt you know you have buried, and you'll end up in jail at best, fired at the very least. And _then_ I'll let Agents Barton and Romanov deal with you in their own way."

She turned and walked slowly back to her seat, her head held high. May and Coulson both tried to catch her eye, but she looked straight forward, turning to go sit beside Stark.

The judge stared after her, and then exchanged a look with the prosecutor.

"Grant Ward will be released from custody," the man said slowly, his hand shaking as he raised his gavel. "This case is dismissed."

Natasha and Clint were at his side in a second (Natasha may have accidentally broken one of the guard's arms on the way up), and when Ward couldn't stand, they lifted him themselves. Triplett, still supporting Fitz, met them half-way towards the door, and Simmons threw her arms around Ward's neck. "I knew they had nothing on you," she whispered against his shoulder.

Maria Hill joined them, nodding to Ward. "I'm sorry they took you into custody again," she said. "I'll make sure it never happens again."

"Oh, believe me, so will I," Skye was standing before him, her eyes flashing. Pepper and Stark were standing on either side of her, both visibly emotional.

"Can we go?" Ward asked Natasha, who was moving over so that Steve could help Ward.

"Yes," she said. "Let's go home."

They left the courtroom and Ward didn't look back, not once. The car was quiet—Natasha hadn't let anyone but herself, Clint, and Steve drive with him—and he was grateful. When they reached home, Natasha ordered him to lie down, while Clint brought him food, and Ward relaxed for the first time in three days.

Steve stayed at his side, quieter than normal.

Skye joined them after Ward had eaten. "Simmons is anxious to get a look at your injuries," she said, dropping onto the couch opposite him. "And the others want to see you, too."

Ward shook his head wearily. "Not today," he said.

"I released the footage anyway," Skye said abruptly, and Ward's head snapped up. She was looking away from him, her jaw set. "I wanted them to pay for what they did to you."

Steve stood. "Natasha will be glad to hear it," he said. "Mind if I go tell them?"

He left them alone, and Skye jumped off her chair and crouched beside Ward, who was lying on the couch.

"I was wrong, you know," she said, and he stared at her. "What I said to you right before… right before Garrett died."

He looked away. "None of it matters now," he said. "It's over. I'd rather not think about it."

"Okay," she said softly, reaching a tentative hand out to smooth hair away from his faces. "God, Grant, they left so many bruises. I'm sorry."

He reached up and closed his hand over hers. "It's okay," he murmured sleepily. "You fought for me today."

"I should have fought for you a long time ago," she said fiercely.

And perhaps he dreamed it—he must have dreamed it—he was so tired—but as he drifted off to sleep, he thought she added, "I was wrong, you know," he thought she whispered. "When I said I wouldn't like the real you."


	10. Battleship

When Ward woke the next morning, Skye was on the opposite couch, curled up under a blanket, her dark hair falling in tangles around her shoulders. When he stirred, her eyes fluttered open.

"Simmons," Skye called sleepily. "The T-1000 is awake."

"Are they all here?" he asked, sitting up straight.

He didn't think he could face Coulson and May, not today. They may have fought for him at the trial, but the sting of their betrayal still stung.

"Just me and Simmons. She wanted to patch you up when you woke. I wouldn't let her near you last night."

"Good," he nodded as Simmons entered.

"Coulson wants to stop by," Skye said as Simmons approached him shyly.

"Tell him when I want to see him again I'll go back to the Bus," Ward said a little too sharply.

"How do you feel this morning?" Simmons changed the subject quickly.

"Like utter shit," Ward groaned, rolling to his feet.

"No, no, no. Sit down. And take off your shirt. I need to get a look at you."

Skye grinned at Simmons' words, and she blushed wildly.

Ward peeled his shirt off, and Simmons winced when she saw the bruises littering his side.

"There's at least one broken rib," she said.

"I figured that out for myself, oddly enough," Ward said wryly. "But I'm fine, Simmons. I'll live."

"You always say that," Skye said, rolling her eyes.

"And I'm always fine. Eventually," Ward argued.

Simmons touched a gentle hand to the burn on his side from the place the sensor had sent the low-voltage jolt of electricity through his body. Ward winced. "Yea, you're not fine. You should rest today. And no macho super-spy action for the next three weeks," she ordered. "Did you hear that, Natasha? He's not allowed to over-exert, okay?"

Ward sighed in fond exasperation. "I'm okay," he said, catching Simmons' hand and forcing her to look at him. "Really."

"You said that for sixteen months and you had us all convinced," Simmons said suddenly. "So… rest. That's your orders, Agent Ward."

Behind Simmons, Skye rolled her eyes and mouthed, "_Humor her_."

Ward sighed again. "Fine," he conceded. "But then you have to get Fitz to come visit me as soon as he's better."

"Of course," Simmons promised as she stood to leave. "Skye, you'll make sure he doesn't over-exert himself?"

Ward looked up sharply, and Skye met his gaze shyly. "You're staying?" he asked.

She nodded.

"What do Coulson and May have to say about that?"

"They can take whatever they want to say and shove it straight back up their asses," Skye said, anger flaring in her voice suddenly.

He stared at her. "What"—

She crossed the room in a few short steps, jabbing her finger against his chest. "I _saw_ what your captors did to you in that prison," she said fiercely. "And May and Coulson just let them take you. They_ let _that happen."

"They couldn't exactly stop it," Ward said, bewildered by her anger. "And believe me, I'm not exactly happy with them, but why are you pissed off? Nobody laid a hand on you… besides, this isn't the worst I've seen. And it was only three days."

Skye looked like she was going to be sick. "Just because you've 'seen worse,' Agent I-Can-Shrug-Off-Torture, doesn't mean that what happened is okay. Coulson should have fought for you."

Ward raised his eyebrows. "Why?"

Skye turned away. "Why are you even asking me that"—

"You know damn well why I'm asking," Ward said, surprising even himself by how cold his voice sounded. "Because last time I was tossed in a prison to be interrogated by those very same people, you looked pretty fucking pleased with yourself."

"I didn't know"—

"And neither did Coulson," Ward said, and he was exhausted when he turned away from her, his shoulders stooping. "If you wanted to know, Coulson and May let me walk straight into their hands to protect Fitz. If they hadn't given me up willingly, I would have been dragged out in front of Fitz, and it would have made his confusion that much worse."

Skye was silent for a long moment, and Ward walked away.

He didn't get very far, though—something in his side shifted just slightly, and he stumbled, suppressing a gasp of pain.

Skye's arm was around him in an instant, holding him up as she guided him into his bedroom and helped him into bed. "What did Simmons tell you? You need to take it easy, Robot," she scolded. "What just happened?"

"It's the broken ribs," Ward said, gritting his teeth. "I shouldn't really be walking."

Skye helped him settle into bed, and then she stood back, her arms crossed. "You're not getting up today. I'll bring you food if you get hungry, but you're not allowed to get up otherwise."

Ward closed his eyes and groaned. "I am _not_ staying in bed all day. I can't sit still that long. If you're not going to let me practice with Clint or Natasha, you need to let me do _something. _I'm going to go crazy in here alone all day."

Skye raised her eyebrows, and then turned and disappeared through the door without saying a word. She was back in a minute, however, carrying a stack of board games. She plopped down on the bed next to him. "Who says you're going to be here alone?" she asked, nearly grinning. "You can still lose at Battleship when you're bedridden."


End file.
